I've always believed
In looking at other people's
Points of view, In
Putting myself in
Someone else's shoes,
But I never meant it
Literally, until I found myself
In someone else's
Jacket, wearing
Someone else's
Trousers, wrapped
In someone else's arms.

I knew the pathway
Like the back of my hand
It was etched there
Involuntarily, as if
Drawn onto my flesh
In my own blood
(I must not tell lies)
This place is somewhere
Only we know
The true face of, having
Been here long enough
Separately, to come
To terms with
Loathing it and having
Been here long enough
Together, to have pleasant
Memories, which are the only things
I can see before my eyes
As I walk through the pathways
That less than a year ago
Were a part of my life.
But I'm not here,
Not anymore.
Although I spent
Five years here, I can only remember
Our five hours.

I have begun to notice the vast, blank
Stretches of wall in my house. They
Have a certain beauty to them, but
In the absence of anything to avert
My attention, I can see only your
Faces, as if painted in memories, on
Those white canvases of nothingness
And the pain of your sudden appearance
Followed tightly by the slow fade of your
Images, is unbearable, but still my eyes
Seek out the blanks on the walls, the
Voids through which you can come
Just that much closer, to my being.

My days have become
A construction site
Of problems and false hopes
And the towers, in these
Modern days, grow forever
Taller, climbing ever
Higher, so we cannot see
The top, but I know
That at the top there is
A portal that if I can reach
Will export me back to the
Flailing, feeble base of my
Structure, export me back to
You.

I left the house
And the moon was smiling at me
I took this as a rather
Ominous sign, the moon
Shouldn't smile, but be a faintly glowing
Indicator of the fleeing time.

It took me no more
Than a second of this fleeting concept
To realize it was no moon
Grinning, but the Cheshire
Cat, indicating that I have finally
Lost my way.

I am able to be poetic
About my pain, it is
Not beyond my ability
And is even easier
Sometimes, than being
Poetic about other things.

But I seem incapable of
Being poetic when
It comes to this feeling
Of missing you.

I try to let my thoughts out
In the form of art but
All that comes into my mind
Is I miss you I miss you
I miss you so much and
That's really not much to go on.

No elaborate metaphors
No elegant words
I just miss you I miss you
I miss you so much and
My brain can't focus
On anything else.